Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was chaos—foam, lightning, flame, and shadow. The three gods who had come to bind Poseidon were no mortals' idols, no hollow priests cloaked in ritual. They were power made flesh, born of Olympus itself, and each step they took warped the mortal sea.

Yet Poseidon stood unshaken. His trident gleamed with abyssal light, a weapon that hummed with the song of trenches older than the stars. Salt mist rose around him, wrapping his form in the mantle of the deep.

"Three against one," Poseidon's voice carried across the storm. "Even Olympus fears me enough to send a pack."

Zephyros, god of the upper skies, raised his staff and his golden wings unfurled wide. "Do not flatter yourself, drowned king. We fear only what must be purged."

Beside him, Seraphin of Flame spat embers from her lips, her body burning brighter than any torch. "Your arrogance drowns mortals by the thousands. Their screams will be the tide that drags you under."

And lurking in the gloom, Nymera of Shadows whispered, her voice slithering like black water: "The sea has no master. Not even you."

---

The Clash

The ocean itself trembled as they struck.

Zephyros hurled down bolts of skyfire, each one splitting the horizon with white brilliance. Poseidon raised his trident and the bolts bent, twisted, swallowed by whirlpools of raw water essence. Lightning became liquid in his grip, streaming into the abyss below.

Seraphin surged forward next, her body becoming a blazing comet. She slammed into Poseidon with enough heat to boil oceans—yet the sea opened for him, cushioning the blow, wrapping flame in suffocating salt spray. Her fire roared, but every droplet of water hissed and clung until her flames sputtered.

"You cannot burn what the sea already claims," Poseidon said coldly, his trident lashing out. The strike sent a geyser upward, knocking Seraphin backward, her armor cracked and smoking.

Then came Nymera. She did not strike openly. Shadows peeled across the battlefield, slipping between waves, wrapping themselves around Poseidon's limbs. They were not mere illusions—they were void, the places where even light could not swim.

For a heartbeat, his body froze. His trident arm locked. His leg sank into the black mire. Nymera appeared behind him, blade of shadow poised for his throat.

"Fall, drowned king."

But Poseidon exhaled. The water in the air thickened, crashing down in torrents. Shadows dissolved beneath weight and salt, and Nymera hissed as the ocean pressed against her form.

"I am not drowning," Poseidon growled, forcing the shadows apart. "I am the drowning."

---

Mortal Reverberations

On the shore, mortals watched in terror as the gods' clash shattered reality itself. Waves taller than palaces crashed in unnatural rhythm. Lightning fell in streams, not bolts. Fire rolled across water like oil, devouring whole fleets. And in the midst of it all, Poseidon's silhouette was unyielding.

"Is this salvation?" cried one sailor, clutching a child.

"No," whispered the Watcher of Tides, his robes heavy with brine. His old eyes reflected the battlefield. "This is judgment. Olympus and the sea war above us, and the earth will crack beneath their weight."

The drowned bell—though sunken—seemed to toll again beneath the waves, echoing through every mortal's chest.

---

Olympus Watches

Far above, on the throne terraces of Olympus, gods and demigods gathered, their gazes fixed on the battlefield below.

"This cannot continue," declared Hera, her crown trembling with restrained fury. "He defies us openly. He drowns our chosen cities. He mocks our decrees."

"And yet," murmured Hermes, leaning casually against a marble pillar, "three of our finest cannot bind him. Tell me, Queen—what does that say of our power compared to his?"

The chamber rippled with unease.

Aegirion, the young tide-god, clenched his trident, watching in silence. Every strike Poseidon landed struck him too, deep in his chest. He could feel the truth: Poseidon was not merely resisting. He was becoming.

---

The Turning Tide

Back on the battlefield, the sea shifted. Poseidon raised both arms, and the entire ocean seemed to tilt with him. Ships—broken, splintered, burning—rose into the air, suspended in a crown of saltwater around him. The horizon bent. The storm froze. For a moment, even gods faltered.

"This is not possible," Zephyros gasped, wings faltering midair. "No god commands the entire sea—"

Poseidon's eyes glowed with abyssal light, his voice rolling like waves against cliffs.

"I told you once. I am no mere god of the sea. I am the sea itself. The abyss wears no chains. The ocean bows to no council. And it will bury Olympus if it must."

With a thrust of his trident, he brought the suspended ocean crashing down.

Zephyros was slammed into the depths, lightning snuffed out. Seraphin's flames were drowned, her body hurled backward into a whirlpool. Nymera shrieked as shadows ripped apart, her blade dissolving into salt foam.

The three gods reeled, wounded, beaten back—not destroyed, but broken.

---

Aftermath of the Clash

As the ocean settled, Poseidon stood alone on a sea that recognized only him. Blood dripped from his lip, but it was not defeat—it was proof. Proof that even Olympus could not bind him.

The mortals who survived whispered his name, half in awe, half in terror.

"Poseidon…"

"Lord of the Drowned…"

"King of the Abyss…"

And far above, on Olympus, silence held. None dared cheer. None dared laugh. The truth was carved into the waves: the drowned god had returned, and no pantheon decree could erase him.

But as Poseidon turned his gaze skyward, toward the heavens themselves, a deeper hunger stirred within his chest. Not Thalorin's. Not Dominic's. His own.

For Olympus had struck first.

And the ocean… never forgives.

The battlefield was still trembling from the echoes of the last clash. Where mortals once prayed, where temples once stood, there was now only ruin—saltwater rivers cutting across shattered stone, corpses caught in swells that lapped hungrily against broken columns.

And at the center of it stood Poseidon.

Not the boy he once was, not the hesitant vessel of a drowned god—but the tide incarnate. His trident glowed with power dredged from the abyss, every droplet of seawater around him whispering obedience. His hair flowed like waves in a storm, his eyes dark whirlpools that pulled light into them.

Across from him, three gods staggered back into formation. They were wounded, but not broken.

Zephyros, god of sky and judgment, his wings tattered yet glowing with lightning.

Seraphin, goddess of flame, her arms seared from where her own fire had been drowned, yet still burning.

Nymera, goddess of shadows, her cloak torn but shadows coiling all the more dangerously around her.

All three looked at Poseidon as though staring at a disaster too vast to contain.

And still, they refused to bow.